autobiographical piece by Jose Tavares 2007 http://www.far103josetavares.blogspot.com/
Translated by Lauren Pearce

We jumped the wall only after being sure nobody was looking out of the many windows watching us and ran as fast as we could trying to remember the way back. We remembered the bridge, so we crossed it.
“Run Mouse, run faster,” said Brito. So I did. For miles we ran and ran and so did my heart, which soon felt like it was jumping out of my chest.

And to think that I had been anxious to come here at first. I was so anxious that day that I was on my best behaviour in case they changed their minds. Was it on a Saturday? Well, it doesn’t matter, I do know it was just three days before my birthday, and I was going to live in a new place, where I was promised there would be a big swimming pool and a bicycle waiting for me.
The plump blue-eyed man, stroked our heads, as you do with little lads, and with a brilliant white smile confirmed the delivery;
"Are these the ones?"
"Yeah, these are the ones."
"They look like good boys", and giving us an intimate wink he asked, "Are you good boys?" Of course the only answer we could give, was the one we’d always given to that difficult question, we shrugged our shoulders, gave tight smiles and looked at the floor.

"And now what?", said Brito, "I don’t remember having seen this crossroads when we came…we’re lost!"
We were lost.
An old lady, head to toe in black with a scarf around her head, was seated on a rock by the side of the road, her walking stick leaning against the wall and looking as if she had nothing more to do than watch the world go by.
I was sure she'd know: "Excuse me Senhora, can you tell us the way to Porto?"
She stood there looking at us, saying nothing at first then exclaimed tenderly, "Oh! but Sonny, Porto is very far you know? Are you walking? Are you alone? Where are your parents?"
Too many questions, we didn’t like it and backed off.
We decided the way should be ahead.
We kept looking back every minute, every five minutes and then every ten minutes. My legs weren’t mine anymore and Brito, he seemed to be fine, although his face was like a tomato.
"Do you think we’re going the right way, Mouse?"
"I don’t know, I wasn’t paying attention when they brought us!"

When they brought us it was early in the morning. It wasn’t raining, but still everything was wet and we could feel the freshness in the air. Through the van window, the sun, which could barely be seen, caressed our faces and we observd its glow through closed eyes. I stayed like that almost all the journey, in that place where the mind refuses to awake although is not asleep. Brito came with me on the same day. A little bit taller and older than me, he came from a family of poor fishermen, which they weren’t anymore. They were now performers from a circus which had been parked at the same place for ages, clinging on to life like a fish out of water, waiting for that last gulp of air. Later on, on another occasion I saw where Brito lived; nearby in a jumble of rusty tin, between the rubbish dump and the old canning factory, looking out to sea. A place where even the good people were thieves and the thieves were robbed themselves, but Brito was a good boy. The journey wasn’t too long, less than an hour perhaps.
In the distance we could see the sea now, invading the river, and a bit closer the seagulls were dancing around the leftovers of the early fish market.
"That is your new hotel" said the man pointing ahead.
"Wow!…"And we gave a second long 'Wow' such was our surprise. Enormous. Majestic. Beautiful. It dominated all the landscape. One part of it, I later learned, was from the times when there were knights on horses with swords and the another was from time of the Romans. This was made up of lots of archways stuck together which extended for miles. "What a strange bridge," said Brito. Later on someone told me the arches were called an aqueduct and our 'hotel' was an old monastery.
The lame man, who had been the doorman there for thirty years, came immediately and with an obsequious smile opened the door for us. The door? No, no! The gateway was built for a giant, the door an arms' length thick, painted green. On the walls of the entrance hall, an old stone room, there were great 'photographs' of people who stared severely down at us, did they want to tell us something? We took a few steps, glimpsing endless marble corridors which seemed to radiate their own light and invited us to run and slide along them, and were ushered up the great stone staircase to the office where they made us wait an eternity. In there, as in the thirteenth century church that belonged to the school, only the bravest flies dared to break the silence.
Then down to the looming hall where suddenly thousands of voices exploded at once: yelling, squealing, snorting, laughing, singing even, everything it seemed but talking. Big wicker baskets appeared and quince sandwiches were devoured. This scene was soon to be part of ur daily lives, every morning when the bell rang. In my old school there had been around one hundred boys, in this one there were too many to count.
Over the next two days I tried to find the swimming pool, (the truth is the place was so large I could have easily missed it) but when they told me, having a laugh at my expense, that they weren’t any bicycles, I struggled to hold back my tears. It was then that I realized that if I wanted to swim I would have to go back to the river, the river in my home city.
I liked the football field though, and … yeah, I know they made me a birthday cake and everything, but I didn’t like the way they talked to us … among other things.

Brito was still looking back, from time to time, I had given up. Suddenly he was gulping "Look! Look! Look!" He couldn’t get the words out. "It’s that guy…that guy…." I looked back and my legs started to shake. Dodging the cars that sped past we crossed the road into the woods. They were coming after us, eight of them in an orange van. They had been parked, waiting for us on a side road, knowing which was we'd come. I started to pray. A trick I'd only just learned.
Brito threw himself into a dark, three metre high mountain of brambles like a professional diver. I hid behind a tree, there’s no point in running if your legs don’t follow you.
"Come on. Get out of there. I can see you Brito. Look lad, you’re just there, I’m pointing at you."
There was no way he could see him. The brambles were dark as a cave, the thorns were a centimeter long and they wouldn’t dare go in after him.
"Come on. Get out of there Brito. I can see you, don’t make things difficult."
Brito came out, the fool, looking like Christ.

I wish that tree could have done more for me.

We paid dearly for our daring. Then, a couple of months later, we did it again.